


Better than Before

by somegunemojis



Series: Tender Mercies [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Pondering the nature of freedom and existence with your bud, two dudes chilling in the evening air not holding hands cause they're not gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:13:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26077783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somegunemojis/pseuds/somegunemojis
Summary: Roffe knows he needs to go to this stupid party, but Bettino is a shit influence.He doesn't need a lot of convincing.
Relationships: Bettino Tahan & Roffe Isakssen
Series: Tender Mercies [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893175
Kudos: 1





	Better than Before

**Author's Note:**

> I got nothing. Bettino is 17 and Roffe is like 20-21 and socially/emotionally stunted enough to think it's fine to enable a 17 year old.

May, 2003 -- Verona, Italia. 

Looking back, things seem a lot simpler. A lot kinder. He has his grades, his friends, his extracurriculars-- hopes and dreams for the future, a steady family. A pair of strong shoulders for others to lean on. He’s seventeen, taking to everything he tries like he was born for it, spinning tales and flirtations and picking locks, lying to his parents, spending time with Roffe Isakssen. 

Roffe is a little older, whip-smart. Bitterly, coldly lonely. Bettino imagines he can hold all of those sharp little pieces of him and put him back together-- if not right, then well enough. Better than before. That’s what’s important. Better than before. He likes to press his shoulder to Roffe’s arm and needle him, crack jokes until he smiles, and drag him along in a life of mischief just to watch his eyes widen with wonder and mirth. Roffe likes to roll his eyes, and share his cigarettes, and pretend he leads a far different life for a few minutes at a time. It makes them forget, for a little while, about the crushing weight of growing up.

They don’t talk about family, though Bettino has charmed his way into enough upscale parties to know that Roffe's mother looks like an unkind woman, eyes always narrowed critically despite her plastered-on smile, and he’s seen the resentment that lingers in the corners of his friend’s expression. He often wonders if Roffe can tell when he trails his fingers over his shoulder and spins him away from her gaze, mouth running a mile a minute about something useless, that it’s meant to be a distraction from the bitterness that lies there. He wonders if he resents that too, or if he appreciates it.

He’s bored, today. It’s been nearly a week since he’d last stuffed himself into a suit and a painted on a sophisticated mask for free booze and easy pickings on jewelry, and he doesn’t feel like doing it tonight either-- instead he slips into an old black hoodie and climbs out his window, and makes his way to the Isakssen estate. The thrill he gets from slipping past security measures in the old, drafty place is a familiar one; he’s made this trip many times before. When he hauls himself quietly into Roffe’s window, the man is straightening his tie, glowering at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t look funny in any way, but Bettino forces out a light laugh, a jackal-sound of amusement and joy. It only becomes genuine when Roffe nearly jumps out of his skin at the unexpected sound. 

“Why the sour expression, my friend? You look like you’ve been sucking on a lemon--” He dodges with another quiet laugh when Roffe lazily pitches a pen at him, unwilling bemusement forming on his own gaunt face. 

“It’s far too late for me to get you into the event tonight, Bettino--” He pauses, eyeing the ragged edges of his streetwear critically. “And you’re hardly dressed for it, either.” 

Bettino lets himself fall back onto the bed with a dramatic sigh, and pretends to ponder this statement of fact. “No, I guess not. But I was thinking-- well, I was thinking we do something a little different tonight.” There’s no answer from Roffe at all for a long moment, and when he finally sits up on his elbows, he’s still standing there in the middle of the room, eyebrow raised expectantly, shoulders slouched and bent and his tie still half-done. They stare at each other in silence, before Bettino hops back to his feet and wanders over to undo and remove Roffe’s tie himself, before beginning a search for something that’s, in his eyes, suitable for the task ahead. “I was thinking I’d show you what real freedom looks like.”

There’s a soft scoff from behind him, but when Bettino turns and tosses a pair of jeans and a soft tee shirt at him, Roffe catches them gamely. “‘Real’ freedom? You’re a few years too late for that, though I’ll admit I’m curious as to just what the hell you think you mean.” His eyes don’t leave Bettino’s hands, which are now rearranging the contents of his nightstand, and lifting up his watches and rings to see how they glitter in the light. Bettino waits, and he waits, and then he grins when Roffe starts to unbutton his shirt with a long sigh and a quiet, “Have it your way, _gazza._ ” 

In almost no time at all, they’re stealing across the gardens into the darkening night. Bettino has to slow his normal gait to almost a crawl for the older man, but he doesn’t mind, or comment, just pushing his hands into his pockets and humming a jaunty little tune as they wander the streets. Roffe doesn’t look _nervous_ , exactly, but he does look out of place-- even in a hoodie and jeans, it’s clear the man’s outfit probably costs more than Bettino’s family’s store is worth, and his uneven stride seems to draw the occasional eye. Bettino bumps his shoulder into his arm, and jokes, “Don’t worry rich boy, I’ll look out for you on the mean streets.” 

Roffe’s look in answer to that could strip paint from a wall, but all it does is make Bettino’s smile grow. “Sure, _scricciolo_ , I’d rather have you than a bodyguard any day.” The rude nickname pushes a laugh out of him-- luckily this one is contagious, and Roffe snickers right along with him. 

“The city isn’t dangerous unless you’re an idiot, Roffe. We’re all just people.” He bumps shoulders with him again, and when Roffe shoves him lightly back, he grins at him. “Have you ever had anything from Sayiid’s place? It’s like, er-- like a Mediterranean sandwich shop. Kafka, shawarma--” Roffe is shaking his head, so Bettino leans up on his toes excitedly. “Alright, we’ll get dinner there. And then after, I want to show you something.” 

They get their sandwiches, chatting idly about all manner of topics: philosophy, art, food, politics. Bettino knows what he’s read on his own time, but Roffe is educated, by a fancy university and everything, and their differing perspectives on certain things never fails to fascinate him. Most contested of all, they whisper about the future. Bettino leads them to the train station, and Roffe gives him another skeptical look.

“If you wanted to run away with me, Bettino, I would have brought a ring. And some cash.” He’s eyeing the building warily, like he’s not sure if the boy is pulling his leg or not. There’s a measure of trepidation, there. But a measure of excitement, too. At the possibilities. 

Bettino scoffs. “Don’t worry, we’ll both go back to our boring lives after this. Cross my heart. We’re just going up to the hills. It’s a fifteen minute train ride. Come, or we’ll miss it.” 

Tickets bought, train boarded, the time passes in patches of warm silence and quiet words. They stop at a station a few kilometres outside of Verona, where the air is crisp and starting to thin from the elevation, and there’s an empty lot that overlooks the city. They sit with their legs hanging over a low wall, and they eat their sandwiches. The city looks small, but the lights are bright. A long silence stretches, and Roffe stares out over the city with something like hunger in his expression. Bettino crosses his legs, keeping his balance easily, and leans his elbows on his knees. 

There’s something sharp in Roffe’s voice when he finally speaks again. “This is what you brought me up here for? To eat, and look at the city? I’ve been on plenty of mountains before.” 

Bettino licks the last bit of red sauce from his fingers, humming absently to let him know he’d heard. “Yeah, I know. You’ve probably been to the alps.” 

Roffe glances at him. “Then what do you think is so _freeing_ about this?” 

Brows furrow. He’s not sure how to put it into words, but thankfully Roffe lets him think on it first. “Well… We’re here because we want to be.” He waves his hand out, as if to encompass the entirety of the city. “It’s easy, down there, to get caught up in how important everything seems. The stupid party tonight-- I know you didn’t want to go. But what real consequences are you going to face for skipping it, and all the petty politics that come with it?” Roffe opens his mouth like he might argue, but Bettino leans until their arms are pressed against each other and he continues, still looking out over the city. “It’s _just a place_. And if we let it, it’ll eat us alive. You have to remember that you aren’t a slave to it, or to the people it holds. We’re people.” He’s not sure he understands Roffe, and he’s not holding out hope that he ever will. But this is as much a reminder to himself as it is to the older boy. “I just wanted to show you, I guess. Sometimes I come out here to remind myself that the world is bigger than all the bullshit down there.”

There’s no disbelieving scoff, or easy dismissal, and if he were to be honest it means more than he could articulate. But when he glances over, the older boy looks tired. A little wan, lit up from the twinkling lights below. His voice is little more than a whisper when he finally replies, “You think this is going to free me? You think this will fix anything?” There’s probably more, Bettino can see he’d been working himself up into a rant, but he cuts it off there, and stares out at the buildings far below.

He’s not nervous. A small smile settles into his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes with warm mirth. “If I wanted to fix things, I’d be hanging around someone that’s a little less of a lost cause.” This time when he nudges Roffe, they just lean against each other-- shoulder to shoulder. “Fixing things is your job, signore politician. Do you want to go back?”

Roffe’s laugh is dry, and he doesn’t pull his eyes from the city below. A reminder, eh? “No, it’s alright. The breeze is nice up here. You’re right, it’s a nice place to think.”

He’s seventeen, and idealistic. Roffe doesn’t tell him so-- not then, and not for many years after. He thinks about that mercy a lot.


End file.
